


The Candle in His Hand

by rachg82



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 20:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4535622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachg82/pseuds/rachg82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This one was written during the 6th season for fourth_rose over at livejournal, who somehow managed to convince me that writing a PWP fic based on my porny sleep-deprived comments to her episode review of The Bikini in the Soup would be a ~great idea~. Somewhere along the line, it decided against being just a PWP fic--damn my pensive ways--but let's face it, this is still a dorky fangirl writing about Booth gettin' down to business. If you know what I mean. And I think you do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Candle in His Hand

**Author's Note:**

> You may have already noticed that the title of this fic comes from the poem "Like This" by Rumi. I'm a lean, mean, reference-makin' machine, so, yes, there'll be three (obvious) quotes from the poem woven into the story as well.

\---

_"Who will I be playing?"_

Sultry & flickering, the words creep low to the ground, bending with the wind.

They follow him home,  
write messages on the bathroom mirror,  
roll around in his bed.

He doesn't have time for this.

Calendars hung,  
hopeful years  
hanged,  
one  
after another;  
the aging clock hides its face. A blinking red light--wake up, wake up.  
Practicing performers are best left in private. 

She has made a teenager out of him.

Pressed under the sheets,  
lids closed  
tight, wanting,  
holy  
to  
the touch.

His pictured hand on her skin;  
five digits  
counting  
stretch marks up her thigh,  
a kiss in worship for each one.

That's what she would be.

Soft & trembling;  
distant words,  
nails tracing  
patterns.  
A shadowy grin.

His.  
Just his.  
And he would be hers,  
like roots first meeting the soil. 

(It's true. He knows it would be true.)

Lines in the sand, they mean nothing.  
The ocean wants the shore;  
it always has.  
The wave has its own reason for being.

Shells don't stand a chance.

Dark & sleek,  
her wet voice  
washing over him.

Again. Please.

(This is what I need)

One hand descends as the other slides in. A white flag waves above his head.

Their writing is on the wall. 

_Like this. Like this._

(Don't try to explain the miracle)

He remembers her sleeping breath against his neck;  
the circus, a trailer, one bed.  
His world suspended within two lips,  
freckles he'd never seen before.  
He couldn't stop staring.

She was still wearing her costume,  
chest rising and  
falling  
beneath his darting  
gaze.

_Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us_

They nearly made a child together once.  
He remembers that, too.  
Her body  
extended.  
Her eyes full of  
promise.  
All because of him.

He sat in that clinic, cup in hand,  
wild with delusion,  
nerves screaming,  
face flaming,  
and thought only of one thing.

Forever.

DNA means forever.

One name.  
One life.  
One request.

A man on a mission.

(Nothing happens unless first a dream)

He would do anything for her,  
to protect her,  
to please her,  
to stay close  
to her.

She is his north star,  
and he has been lost his whole life.

They are so far apart now.  
It is his choice. He knows that.  
When a wound is infected, one cleans it.  
A cut needs time to heal.

These are lessons learned in the trenches.

Booth feels diseased & dangerous.  
He's set up a quarantine  
with crossed fingers behind  
his back.

_Please don't go._

Bones could tell him all about pathogens.  
She understands and waits;  
he will need a friend to guard the perimeter.

This is the way things are.  
She requires no payment in return.

Streets & sidewalks, strangers in the moonlight;  
the night is judgmental.  
It reminds him his bed is made for two. 

Tossing & turning,  
there is too much room  
in this  
room.

Too much space  
between  
there and here.

Her bed & his. Today & tomorrow. What comes next.

He doesn't have any more answers.

Her face raises a question  
with each and every look.

The stars form ampersands across his ceiling.  
_This is the proper punctuation_ , they say,

for  
1 & 2,  
and  
left & right,  
and  
east & west,  
and  
you & me.

_Brain & heart, Bones_

(walk back into my house)

Like this. Like this.

He still wants to learn,  
always the eager student;  
shoes shined,  
books in one hand,  
mischief in the other;  
a green apple tossed to the teacher.

Booth can see her before him now  
in a cardigan sweater;  
strict ruler in hand,  
black-framed glasses,  
trim & tidy skirt;  
lectures rolling off her tongue  
like freshly squeezed grapes.

Pay attention.

We have a lot to cover.

Be a good boy.

_Who will I be playing?_

There's no stopping now.  
The shadows have grown long  
and his pulse  
is pounding.

Roxie.  
Wanda.  
Bren.

_Who will I be?_

Just you, Bones. Just you.

It's all he really wants.

It's all he'll ever want.

Her thoughts.  
Her fears.  
Her touch.  
Her glance.  
Her words.  
Her smile.  
Her walk.  
Her tears.  
Her laughter.  
Her desire.  
Her love.

She is imperfectly perfect.

Her head would fit just right on his chest,  
hair tickling in the morning;  
her hips would  
tuck back  
into him, just  
so,  
and sway.

Slowly, surely.  
A frenzy in the making,  
no longer contained.

His lips would mouth her ear,  
I love you.  
I love you.  
I love you.

One palm mapping her hip,  
two rogue fingers raiding her bellybutton,  
he would discover her whole.

There are no ghosts here. They've been swept away by the tide.

They are the walking dead, come back to life. Spirits are not welcome.

He is still so afraid. It is not yet their time.

It is never his time. He is tired of waiting.

He waited as a child.  
He waited as a young man.  
He is old now  
and in need  
of rest.

There must be a place for him somewhere,  
some part of him that's right. 

His heart is a traitor. It tells him to keep going; it tells him  
she'll be there  
searching,  
calling  
his name.

It's her name he's calling now.  
Hoarse,  
familiar,  
sacred;  
her face & the rain;  
his legs are shaking;  
this ache is primal.

Time reveals its face & gives a standing ovation.  
The clock's red light blinks on  
and on.  
_Don't forget_.

He won't.

It'll be his choice.  
His & hers,  
together.

_Like this._

\---

**Fin**


End file.
